Sunday afternoon, one-thirty p.m.
The orange pollution and rain clouds have turned the sky a comforting shade of dirty-gray. As I look ahead, I see my neighbors' house, the same shade as the sky, the same shade as the sky in Germany when my grandfather lost his mind - don't we all?
Don't we all grow sick of the bright sunlight, burning the leaves, ridiculing shitty days and misfortunes; don't we all unwillingly get blinded by its glare on our dirtied windshields?
There it is again, coming up on the left, ready to patronize yet another day, chasting away clouds of rain.
Don't we all?
Rain makes things shiny.
I never should have grown up in the city.